


A Song of Storm & Fire

by iluxia



Series: Windcity Saga [3]
Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, M/M, Mpreg, Romance, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2008-08-15
Updated: 2008-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-30 21:43:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iluxia/pseuds/iluxia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Work in progress. The dawn of a new day approaches. Hope once more perches upon Ryoma's soul, but the drums of war are sounding as the Empire moves in and takes the one thing that is most precious to the entire Kingdom: Akira. Sequel to "The City of the Wind" (prequel) and "On The Other Side of Despair" (interlude).</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Song of Storm & Fire

_My father who bore me often said that magic lives in curves and not angles, that life is never one straight line. It is a loop, he says, an eternal loop of faith and love and that which makes living worthwhile. I never fully understood what this meant until time passed and with the passing came wisdom of age. Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards—so one of my two other loving fathers tells me.  
  
Life has many mysteries, and these mysteries are what breeds stories. Tales of eternal love that broke through impregnable darkness, tales of long-past days of childhood and happiness… tales of heartbreak and sorrow at its deepest…  
  
And yet we find that we can never tell a proper story without knowing the conclusion first. A conclusion does not necessarily mean an end, for the characters may continue living, and for as long as there is life, there is no end. However, a conclusion closes a chapter of the characters’ lives, and this conclusion makes a story whole.  
  
Because of this, we find that what we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from. Only at the end will we be able to tell the tale, for only at the end will a story be whole.  
  
Today I am a grown man, but I tell this story through the eyes of a child. I tell this story hundreds of years past, when most people have forgotten the face of hope and the touch of faith, when the darkness once more threatens to tear at the edges and swallow us whole. Perhaps this story will remind the people of what once was… of the love, and of the glory… and of the magic…_

 

~

 

Impatiently, Akira turned his eyes upon the old grandfather clock, urging the hands to go if only a tad bit faster. Never did he like the days when he was left to his own devices. There was really nothing much he could do, and boredom was not welcome company—he was, after all, of Echizen blood.  
  
He would much like to explore the castle grounds, but he was allowed no further than the most heavily guarded residential floors of the castle. Often he wished they lived in the West quarter instead; from Keigo, he heard stories of old—of the beautiful gardens with the enchanted hedgerow maze, of the little nooks and crannies handy for hiding from his governess, of the sentient rooms and the little magical trinkets, of the inexhaustible library he could sit in for days on end, and of the freedom, oh, the freedom!  
  
The castle, sadly, offered no such reprise.  
  
Harrumphing, he turned back to his mid-afternoon snack, forking a piece of the cake and into his mouth. He licked his lips clean, those lips he was often told came from his father who bore him, Ryoma. Most of his facial structure was also inherited from the same parent—graceful eyebrows, an immaculate nose, and a well-defined facial shape. His cheekbones and gold-streaked dark brown hair was all he took from his other parent, Tezuka.  
  
His eyes, however, were what mesmerized people the most. They were of brilliant olive gold, a curious mix of colors from both of his parents. The color fluctuated from dark olive to bright flecked gold depending on his mood—his grandmother often told him his eyes held its own unique kind of magic. At times, he could not help but wonder if it was this magic that made it so easy to convince people by simply making eye contact.  
  
He forked another piece of cake into his mouth, idly looking out the window. The faint notes of a piano tickled his ears—his father, Ryoma, was once more playing for the still sleeping Tezuka.  
  
His young mind still could not fully comprehend the reason behind Tezuka’s deep slumber. All he knew was that something akin to a curse was placed on Tezuka, and though he was technically free of it, he still was in need of lots of rest.  
  
In all honesty, Akira wanted Tezuka to wake up. Because maybe if Tezuka woke up, then Ryoma would start paying attention to him.  
  
Despite his youth, his eyes could clearly see that his bearing father, Ryoma, was wholly inundated with everything that was Tezuka, the same way his godfather Keigo was utterly captured with everything that was Ryoma.  
  
A part of him was proud that he could say with absolute certainty to the rest of the world that his parents loved each other with all their hearts. But would it be too much to ask of even just a little bit of love to keep to himself?  
  
Stabbing his cake venomously with his fork, he stirred his cooling tea, disturbing his forlorn reflection upon its surface.  
  
“Akira.”  
  
Eyes snapping up, a small smile crept upon Akira’s face. “Yuu-shi!”  
  
He eased himself clumsily off his seat, creasing his robes in the process, and greeted his second-favorite person in the world with a warm hug. In reality, they were uncle and nephew, but their relationship was more of brothers. He would have gotten into the habit of calling Yuushi his uncle, if not for the man’s dislike of the term. It made him sound old, Yuushi said.  
  
“Alone again, are we?” Yuushi smiled down at the child, leading him back towards the round table.  
  
“Kei is busy,” he chirped. “Father is with Tezuka.”  
  
Frowning reproachfully down at the child, Yuushi said, “You should not call your father by his name.”  
  
Pouting, Akira replied, “But I have two of them. How do I know which he is?”  
  
“Cheeky brat,” Yuushi muttered with a roll of his eyes.  
  
“Can we play?” Akira eagerly asked, tugging Yuushi towards the chess set. “Teach me more!”  
  
“Are you not supposed to be finishing your reading, Akira? Your governess will not be happy to find out you are behind your studies.” Contradicting his own words, Yuushi sat himself on one side of the chess table. They could all say what they want, but not a single soul within the castle would be able to deny the child of anything anyway.  
  
Akira grimaced. “I do not like her.”  
  
“She is a kind lady, and that is no way to talk about a lady, young Prince,” Yuushi scolded, moving an emerald pawn forward. This was almost a daily routine—Yuushi would guide the child through chess, teaching him strategy and planning step-by-step, with demonstration. Akira was a startlingly fast learner, as if both Ryoma and Tezuka’s learning capacities were combined within him.  
  
“She’s not kind when she’s mad.” Pawn.  
  
“And who is it that makes her mad?” Bishop.  
  
Akira scowled up at Yuushi, encouraging a chuckle from the mage.  
  
There was a pause of silence as moves were exchanged. By the day, the boy was getting stronger. He was still far from being able to steal a win, but he was getting stronger.  
  
“When will Kei be done with work?”  
  
Yuushi surreptitiously glanced at the child, the small, hopeful voice catching his attention. Akira was beyond enamored with Keigo. There was not a day they did not spend time together, and whenever there were trips Keigo had to take, the young King would bring home gifts and souvenirs, books, sweets and chocolate. Akira held and brought himself the way Keigo did; the boy may have the face of a young Ryoma, but he certainly has the heart of a young Keigo.  
  
“He will be out of the study soon, Akira.” He reached over and ruffled the child’s hair, which was done to mimic Keigo’s style. “When he finishes his work, ask him to get you a new governess, if you dislike your current one that much.”  
  
“Alright,” nodded Akira, content with the reassurance. There was now a small smile playing on his lips, all traces of the previous sadness wiped from memory. All he knew and all he cared for at the moment was the game, and his Kei.

 

~

 

_Our relationship with truth is fundamental, but cracked, refracting confusingly like fragmented glass. It is the core of the paths we take, the endgame of every move we make. We pursue it with strategies painstakingly constructed of lies and concealment and every variation of deception. The truth is the most desirable woman in the world and we are the most jealous lovers, reflexively denying anyone else the slightest glimpse, even if we ourselves have yet to set eyes on her.  
  
The truth is often tangible, yet we humans fail to perceive it wholly. This failure of perception is then reflected upon our daily actions and decisions. It creates a foundation of illusion, and this illusion entices and captures us into its grasp.  
  
Perhaps then, it would not be a lie to say that the reason why we so desperately covet this illusion is because we no longer want to set eyes upon the fractured reality we have found._

 

~

 

Letting his fingers caress the keys and tease a melody from the depths of silence, Ryoma uttered a peaceful sigh. The gentle breeze was a light touch against his face, the slivers of fading daylight tickling his vision. The heavy ripple of magic was eminent inside the chambers, though against his accustomed skin the weight was nonexistent.  
  
Keigo would often tell him to lift the magic if only for the sake of the maids who brought the food—anyone who was not comfortable with magic would feel suffocated and nauseous with the thickness of the aura Ryoma was emitting. Ryoma, however, refused. This magic, he knew, hastened Tezuka’s recovery. Without it, the healing would take decades. By simply breathing the magic-laden air, the unconscious mage’s depleted reservoir was fed and slowly replenished. With every breath, Tezuka was inching closer and closer towards waking.  
  
There were certain days when Tezuka’s eyes would flutter, when his breath would lighten as if leading up to waking. There were certain nights when his hand in Ryoma’s would tighten, when the fingers would flutter and caress Ryoma’s skin, as if he knew his love was there, watching and waiting.  
  
Each of these little steps of progress heartened Ryoma, and with each passing day his eyes brightened. The day of awakening was nearing, and his magic could feel it. Soon, Ryoma soothed his inner wanting, soon Tezuka would be with him once more.  
  
“Akira has been wanting to let you listen to one of the songs he has mastered,” a familiar voice carried from the doorway. Ryoma’s fingers gently closed the tranquil piece he was playing, faltering not even on a single note. “Surely you could spare him an afternoon’s worth of your attention?”  
  
“You know as well as I do, Keigo, that Tezuka has entered the stage of recuperation within which a heavy dose of restoring magic is needed. The Healers cannot give that much magic. As thus, I am the only one who can provide him with what he needs.”  
  
Keigo pursed his lips as Ryoma stood from the piano and made his way towards the mage’s bed.  
  
“And you know as well as I do, Ryoma, that your child has entered the phase of childhood within which love and attention is needed for appropriate growth. Yuushi and I can only substitute for your presence so much. You are the only one who can provide him with what he needs.”  
  
Turning an irritated glare upon his cousin, Ryoma frowned. “I cannot leave Tezuka.”  
  
“And so you shall leave your child behind?”  
  
The fact that this conversation was not a pleasant one was clearly evident within Keigo’s face and voice. Had Ryoma been calm, he would have seen that Keigo was not pleased with himself; the King rarely ever has been the cause of the Prince’s upset.  
  
  
The sudden surge of an unexplainable tangle of emotions, however, clouded his reasoning. “Are you forcing me to choose, Keigo? Why do I _have_ to choose in the first place?!”  
  
“Ryoma—”  
  
“Look. Akira is a smart child. He understands the situation well.” A crease on Ryoma’s forehead indicated the telltale annoyance he felt. “I have told him that as soon as Tezuka wakes up, we will be able to spend more time together, and he understands that.”  
  
The young King was silent, leaning against the doorway, deep in thought. The Prince did not have to look to know that his cousin was once again wearing that sad face he always wore whenever an argument over Akira broke between them. Ryoma felt attentive grey eyes trailing over his form, and he could not help but feel a wanting for solitude.  
  
“Keigo, I’m sorry, but could you leave us…?”  
  
The silence was only disturbed by a fluttering swish of robes as Keigo made his way out of the private quarters, the magic locking the doors behind him.

 

~

 

The setting sun was already giving way to the night by the time Keigo finished his duties. Today was another day of politics, diplomacy, and money. There was nothing particularly noteworthy, apart, perhaps, from certain threats of war brought up during one of his short meetings with his counselors.  
  
The uneasy ceasefire between the Kingdom and the Empire, a constant topic of dispute between the counselors, was currently under threat of dissolution. The aftershocks from the Monastery incident four years past were still fresh within the minds of the people. The knowledge of the infiltration by the spy currently known as Yukimura Seiichi did not help matters either. Of course, details remained ambiguous and were reserved only for certain ears, but rumors had the uncanny ability to spread like wildfire, and people were bound to cast first suspicions upon the Empire.  
  
A sigh escaped his lips.  
  
 _The worst is not always certain, but it is very likely._  
  
Contingency plans and the beginnings of preparations for war were whispered from the depths of his mind, his inner voice taking a more calculating note. There was news of civil war currently raging within the Empire, though the sources were quite vague and had a hint of untrustworthiness. He was sorely tempted to think of the best possible scenario—that the Empire would be too busy calming its own hands and feet to properly deal with the Kingdom—but being the well-educated strategist he is, he forced himself to pretend that the worst possible situation was facing them: the Empire, at its peak, would have full rapt attention on the Kingdom, and _only_ his prosperous Kingdom.  
  
He took a sharp left and passed through the hall bridging the castle’s central and private west wings. Pushing thoughts of war and politics into a box to be perused much later with more helpful company, he took a deep breath and cleared his mind. Akira would not be happy to find out that he did not have the full attention of his beloved Keigo during the only time they could spend together.  
  
His tired but nonetheless eager footsteps were muffled by the lushly carpeted floor beneath his feet, his robes parting and fluttering around him as he made his way towards Akira’s chambers. He was not even one step into the sitting room when a very happy Akira exploded out of a seat and into his arms, all smiles and laughter. An entertained Yuushi sat elegantly by the window, observing the happy reunion between the King and the young Prince.  
  
“What took you so long?!” whined the boy, never letting go of the King’s waist.  
  
“Forgive me, Akira,” Keigo chuckled, kneeling to accommodate the child’s height. He faced the boy and pressed a small kiss on the pert nose. “There were certain matters that needed my attention.”  
  
The boy remained with a pout, but seemed at the very least half-appeased.  
  
“Will you play chess with me? Yuu-shi has been teaching me new things.”  
  
All eagerness and joy, the boy tugged Keigo towards the table Yuushi vacated. The pieces on the board were still frozen in the midst of Yuushi and Akira’s most recent educational match. Keigo could not help but admire how fast Akira learned new material—the child’s mind was frighteningly similar to a dry sponge being submerged slowly in a tubful of water. He could already see the makings of a fine tactician as he observed the standstill upon the chess table—Akira had a very clever way of mixing and matching separate moves and techniques he had learned and forming a game play that could at times trick even _the_ Oshitari Yuushi.  
  
A smile tugged at Keigo’s lips as a humming Akira rearranged the chess pieces on the table. Unobserved by either of them, Yuushi silently slipped out of the room, giving them privacy and letting them settle into the comfort of each other’s company.  
  
“How has your lessons been treating you, Akira?” Keigo asked, moving a pawn forward.  
  
Akira frowned. “I do not like my governess.”  
  
Keigo gave a resigned sigh. “Akira, we have talked about this already, have we not?”  
  
“I do not like her.” A grimace.  
  
“And why, pray tell, do you not like her?”  
  
“Because she is noisy and she nags.”  
  
“Well, that is what governesses are supposed to do.”  
  
“I do not like it.”  
  
Giving up the train of though, Keigo looked for another avenue of discussion. An argument with an utterly convinced Akira was an argument with a brick wall. The child had a perfect sense of self-opinion, but was still in the process of understanding the meaning of the word “compromise”.  
  
“Ne, Kei.”  
  
“Mm?”  
  
Little fingers took one of the black rooks and replaced it with a white bishop. “Could you tell me again what my name means?”  
  
Quirking an eyebrow, Keigo contemplated upon the loss of one of his rooks. The boy was getting better by the day. “Why do you ask?”  
  
Pouting, Akira stole another one of Keigo’s pawns. “Tell me.”  
  
Grey eyes turned to settle upon the boy’s small determined face. There was a fire in those golden olive eyes, a fire that was so startlingly similar to the dwindling one within Ryoma’s eyes—Keigo could recognize that fire anywhere. Red-orange rays from the setting sun accented the flecks of gold and made them only the more exquisite, as if they were not already precious enough.  
  
“Your name, Akira, means ‘dawn’. The dawn of a new day. The beginning of a new story.” Keigo settled a hand on his lap, eyes moving towards the window to watch the sun slowly sink beneath the silhouetted horizon. “You were the beginning of a new story, Akira. When you were born, Ryoma’s story, which then reached a standstill, continued within you.”  
  
Akira’s eyes drooped. “Father does not love me.”  
  
Surprised grey eyes snapped back towards the child, and the surprise slowly melted into sadness. Keigo reached over. His hand, he mused, looked awfully large upon the little boy’s head. “Look at me, Akira.”  
  
The boy kept his head down.  
  
Keigo stood from his seat and moved around the table to crouch beside Akira, holding the boy’s face between his hands and turning it up to face him. “Look at me.” Grey eyes met golden olive. “That is not true, Akira. Your father—he loves you very, very much. Both of them—Ryoma, and Tezuka—they love you from the bottom of their hearts. Do not ever think otherwise.”  
  
“If father loves me, then why does he never come and play?”  
  
They wrenched at Keigo’s heart, those words. The sheer anguish behind them was overwhelming—child though he was, Akira was perfectly capable of feeling deep sadness as any mature human being.  
  
“Your father is very confused right now, Akira. Ryoma loves Tezuka very, very much, and is very worried to the point that he cannot bear to be apart. It is not that Ryoma does not love you, Akira. He just loves Tezuka too much.”  
  
Akira did not argue any further; silence acquainted itself with Keigo’s ears once more. Part of him was glad that Akira understood the fact that there would be no point in continuing the discussion. However, he could see very well that the boy was anything but convinced. Love was, after all, a very abstract concept. Perhaps, Keigo mused, if the child experienced the same kind of love that bound Ryoma and Tezuka together, he would understand.  
  
Keigo stroked the side of Akira’s face, pleased when the boy leaned into it the same way Ryoma would. “You do know that it was Ryoma who gave you your name, do you not?”  
  
Golden olive eyes peered into his with curiosity.  
  
“To him, you were the bright, clear dawn. To him, you were hope,” Keigo explained, knowing the child would somehow understand. “Ryoma is very confused right now, Akira, but please do not give up on him.”  
  
It took a moment before a solemn nod came from the boy, along with a slight sniffle. Keigo leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to the boy’s forehead, drawing him into a hug. The silence was soothing; the warmth was pleasant. Shadows fell upon the room as the last of the sun’s rays dwindled into the darkness of night.  
  
“I had wanted to name you Akihiko, but Ryoma refused,” Keigo wryly added. “Something about the name being too… shiny.”  
  
Akira giggled.  
  
“You could call me Akihiko,” the child quipped.  
  
Keigo chuckled. “Only when it is just the two of us, child. Your father can be very accurate with his knives.” __

~

 

_“And though I was a soul in pain,_  
 _My pain I could not feel.”_  
 _( Oscar Wilde )_

_  
_


End file.
